


We Set The World To Rights

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst and Porn, Consensual Kink, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Bondage, Mild Smut, Rope Bondage, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: “If you like being tied up so much, well. I’ve been the expensive elite version of a girl scout, which means I know pretty good knots, and I’m sure we can find some rope around the place if we go looking. We can take care of that right here. No need for you to go and get yourself...”And right then and there Kate loses her train of thought, because they’ve been together for a few months now but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Clint’s pupils dilate so fast and so suddenly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samalander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/gifts).



> Among your likes were angst and porn and... voila? Though this fell out surprisingly vanilla for bondage porn, idek. But I started two other, more plotty fics and neither really yielded, so I decided to stick to my guns, which, yes. Angst and porn. Enjoy! XD
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Glory" by Bastille.

For the past five years, Kate’s definition of normal has been constantly readjusted. She doesn’t quite remember what it used to mean, before. Then the Young Avengers were normal, holding the line in a world that deemed superheroes illegal. These days it means playing with the big leagues, occasionally sassing Captain America or comparing notes about sporting goods sales with one of the Spiders. In short, Kate has stopped trying to catch up. Normal just means whatever status quo she wakes up to that morning.

For the most part it does, anyway. One thing it will never mean is sitting in a control center, clutching Kamala’s hand on one side and America’s on the other, and watching a rescue mission for her _boyfriend_. She wants to be there, in the warehouse, being part of it; she understands why that’s inadvisable. But no one can pry her from the monitor, eyes glued to the blurry black and white images from the feed that’s showing Clint, tied to a chair with his arms behind his back, in the center of a large room, his head sunken between his shoulders and a darker patch on his temple that she knows means he’s bleeding. They lost audio a while ago, during the second interrogation, and so they don’t know whether or not he’s still conscious.

(Technically they also don’t know if he’s still breathing, if he’s still alive, since he hasn’t moved at all in the past ten minutes. Kate is very determinedly not thinking about _that_ , though. )

Her grip on both her friends’ hands tightens then the screen explodes with white as the door to the interrogation is blown. It’s Natasha who runs through the debris first and hauls Clint to a stand – technically she shouldn’t have been on the rescue team either, due to personal attachment, but, you know, Black Widow, not even Captain America would have been able to keep her away – and Kate’s heart misses a beat when she watches him react. His hand twitches where Natasha puts it around her waist, while she’s sneaking the other underneath his torso to support his weight. He seems to be moving under his own steam, though, at least partly, until he stumbles and Natasha readjusts her grip, all but carrying him out of the room the rest of the way. Just before they’re out of sight, he looks up, vaguely in the direction of the camera. There’s more blood than had been visible previously, and Kate tells herself that doesn’t have to mean anything. Head wounds bleed a lot, even if they aren’t that serious.

Kamala squeezes her hand tighter still, America nudges her until Kate’s got her head resting on her shoulder. “He’s okay,” she whispers. “He’s gonna be okay.”

And Kate closes her eyes, listening to confirmation from the comms that they’ve got him out, they’re on their way home, and chooses to believe that.

 

***

 

They manage to keep Clint in medical for all of twelve hours, and Kate suspects that’s only because he’s fast asleep for about eight of them. Hour fourteen – after a lengthy discussion with the doctor in charge and a cab ride home – finds them both on the couch at his place, Lucky curled upon the floor by their feet. Kate’s dabbing an antiseptic wipe at the wound on his temple after changing the dressing, and she finds herself permanently torn between wanting to throttle him and wanting to curl up next to him and never let go. Neither of these impulses are new, not even in quick succession, but that doesn’t make them any less irritating.

He’s wearing a plain T-shirt and pajama buttons, and while he hasn’t sustained any other serious injuries, there’s an even more illustrious pattern of bruises and lacerations peeking out from under the fabric than usual. Kate watched how most of these came into being. She can’t quite decide whether that makes it easier or harder to deal with seeing them now. The memories float up without her permission and she closes her eyes against them, knowing it’s futile, and bites her lip until she feels a slight sting.

When she looks up again, Clint is watching her intently, head tilted to the side. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, exhaling. “You’re an idiot, is all.”

That produces a grin, albeit a somewhat subdued one. “Not exactly news, girly.” He reaches for her, tilting her chin upwards. “But I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t lie to each other.”

He’s one to talk, seeing how her inquiries after _his_ state of mind are regularly met with a shrug and a sheepish smile. At the end of the day, however, he’s right. That’s why she squats at his wrist to shake off his hold, busies her hands by applying new gauze to his wound while staring at that instead of meeting his eyes, and decides to just come out with it. “For a while, before they got to you, I thought… I thought you might be – “

“Hey, no,” Clint falls in, ducking lower so she has no chance other than meeting his gaze. “Takes a lot more to kill an old cockroach like me.” He idly scratches his chin, reconsidering. “Permanently, at least.”

She punches him in the arm, but lightly, since most of his body is one big bruise right now and since she’s been there, she’s sympathetic. “Not funny.”

It makes Clint hiss a little anyway. Kate finds she’s not particularly sorry.

“Will you stop hitting me, please?” he demands, glaring at her. “I think I've had my fill for the week.”

Kate glowers right back, although it might lose some of its impact when she accompanies it by smoothing her thumb over the fresh dressing she just finished, gently, and dovetails that into stroking the short hair near his ear. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. And before you point it out: yes, I know that’s super hypocritical of me.”

His eyes drop to half-mast, and he leans into her touch like a cat angling for more pets. “That’s not hypocritical. I feel the same way whenever you come home beat up and bleeding, and we both know neither of us is gonna stop anytime soon.”

“It’s just,” Kate marches on, now that he’s conceded the point. “If you like being tied up so much, well. I’ve been the expensive elite version of a girl scout, which means I know pretty good knots, and I’m sure we can find some rope around the place if we go looking. We can take care of that right here. No need for you to go and get yourself...”

And right then and there Kate loses her train of thought, because they’ve been together for a few months now but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Clint’s pupils dilate so fast and so suddenly. His eyes have gone wide. His throat his working, as if he’s literally trying to swallow down the reaction to her words.

“Wait a second.” She squints at him. “That’s turning you on, huh?”

Clint makes another attempt at clearing his throat, which ends up in a cough. It’s kinda adorable. “Not out there. I’m not that fucked in the head. But the thought of you doing it, here at home?” He searches for her gaze, letting her see the heat in his eyes, and fuck if that doesn’t make desire sizzle through her in response. “Yeah. Can’t say I’m opposed to the idea.”

She can still hear the sermon from the doc back in medical, including all those warnings about taking it slow and resting and avoiding strenuous activity. Being the responsible adult around here is a hard job, but someone has to do it, and besides, imagining that this might all end with a stroke and her having to explain why tying up her recently concussed boyfriend and having her way with him seemed like a _good_ idea makes for pretty effective mental cold shower.

“Not now,” Kate says, nodding to herself, decisively. She’s prepared to put her foot down on this one, if she needs to. (Doesn’t mean she can’t file the idea away for later.)

Clint pouts – actually pushing out his lower lip and all, like an overgrown five-year-old – but he doesn’t argue.

 

***

 

The following weeks are busy – spoiler alert: the next person who gets to tie Clint to a piece of furniture is _not_ Kate – and they both have other things on their minds. Lending their sex life a slight kinky turn takes the backseat; hell, being present and awake at the same time and getting in a few quick screws in the shower is all they manage for nearly a month. But yeah. The idea has taken root, and Kate doesn’t plan on letting it go. She’s just waiting for the right time, the right opportunity.

And because she’s the Hawkeye with a modicum of foresight, she does some googling and makes a supply run or two in the meantime.

 

***

 

As an Avenger, you don't exactly get to put in vacation requests. The world ends when it wants to, not when it's convenient. But there are _a lot_ of Avengers at this point, and, Clint being basically a founding member or not, they're far from being the most universally useful assets in that toolbox. Long story short, Kate may have _suggested_ to a few people that both their names be skipped this weekend. And hey, it's only Friday night, but they've been lounging around at home the whole day. Now or never. Kate has a plan. 

Clint is lounging on the couch, his true and tried go-to whenever he's got more than an hour of free time and doesn't feel like practicing. He's got an arm folded underneath his head and one leg thrown over the backrest, and it's a total mystery to Kate how that could ever be comfortable, but there are certain things about Clint that don't have to be understood, only observed. He does make for a pretty comfortable snuggle partner like this, and far be it from her to complain. 

But yeah. The plan. Kate pushes herself up into a sitting position and twists so she can kiss him, just once, to be indulgent, and then heaves her body off the couch. Clint whines a little, making grabby hands at her. Kate rolls her eyes. 

She pads up the stairs and unearths a bag from the drawer on her side of the bed, clutches it to her chest, and marches back down. She lays it out on the counter in the kitchen, stepping around when Clint cranes his neck to see what she's doing, shielding the contents from view. The she turns around, back to the counter and both hands braced on its edge. 

“I want you to get off that couch,” she instructs, heart beating in her throat. “Come over here, and get naked.” 

Clint shifts, and it looks like he's kneeling on the couch now rather than laying spread out all over it. “Uh, what? I mean, I'm game, I'd just like to know what for?” 

And fine, okay, maybe that opening wasn't ideal. Clint isn't precisely obedient on his best days, and they're not in a damn porno. Kate steps to the side a few inches and reaches behind herself for the all-purpose rope that's the main feature of her little bag of surprises. It's white and purple, because she's ridiculous and makes no effort to hide it, and it's still rolled up, hasn't been touched since she bought it in the hardware store down the street. 

Now she holds it up, dangling it slowly, and Clint damn near _jumps_ off the couch. 

“You should have lead with that,” he says while he's peeling his jeans and briefs down his hips in one go, and it's rather encouraging to see that he's hard already. 

“Maybe,” Kate admits. 

She's leaning against the counter again, having regained her nonchalance, and watches him strip. The t-shirt goes next, and he wasn't wearing any footwear, which means he is now, indeed, standing before her completely naked and awaiting further instructions. He's also grinning like Christmas morning, and ah, yes, now that's a little more according to plan. 

Making sure the other contents of the bag – condoms, a pair of scissors for emergencies, and a printout of a quick tutorial for a simple bit of beginner's bondage called rope handcuffs – are in place, she unwraps the rope and steps towards Clint. She studied the tutorial beforehand, but she likes having the visuals to fall back on and remind her. 

“Hold your hands out behind your back, wrists about two hand-widths apart,” she says, and Clint complies immediately. 

She takes her sweet time before tying the rope, runs her hands down his bare back and over the swell off his ass, enjoying the way that makes him shiver. His hips are drawing small circles in what she's sure is an unconscious gesture, but she's not going to comply; it'll be a little while until she's going to go for his cock, and right now he can't. 

The knot is indeed easy, and within a few minutes she's got Clint's arms tied neatly behind himself. The space between his wrists, she hopes, means the strain on his shoulders and upper arms will be kept to a minimum. She nods at her handiwork and allows herself another quick touch, brushing her thumb down the crack of his ass. Immediately, Clint readjusts his stance, widening his legs, and the willingness, the _neediness_ of it sends a sharp jolt of arousal up her spine. She rewards him by reaching further down, rolling his balls in the palm of her hand for just a few seconds, and then she steps away. 

“Go upstairs,” she says. “Sit on the edge of the bed. I'll be right with you.” 

There's no particular reason for the command or letting him go up alone, but the readiness with which he follows it steals her breath. He doesn't mouth off, doesn't argue, hardly even looks at her. He just goes, and Kate takes another minute or two to just... ground herself. She packs up the scissors and condoms and some salve she got in case he ends up with rope burn; the internet said it's unlikely to happen, but, well. Clint. She had a dozen ideas for what to do with him when she planned this, and yet, standing there, glancing towards the bedroom, she can't recall a single one. Winging it, then. She's sure she'll come up with something. 

Upstairs, she finds him in the exact position she instructed, and he's tracking her movements from the second she enters his line of sight, but otherwise doesn't move. In any other situation, that would parse as being alert, mistrustful, keeping aware of his surroundings. It might read like that, too, right now, if it weren't for the look on his face. 

He's fully focused on her, and his expression is more open than she's ever seen it, displaying a level of trust that knocks the wind out of her yet again. He's not tracking her every move as a safety measure – he's doing it because right now nothing else exists for him. Kate's spent hours reading about every single reaction this kind of play could trigger, and she recalls descriptions of something like this too; she just didn't expect it from him. It's an immense responsibility, and one she wasn't quite prepared for. There need to be conversations about this, boundaries being set and rules drawn. Which is why she's going to keep it simple this time around. Nothing exotic. Nothing _dangerous_. 

Standing right in front of him, Kate slowly undresses. Not quite a striptease, methodical, but drawing it out. His shoulders twitch when she unclasps her bra, then again when she steps out of her panties, like he's itching to reach out and touch, forgetting for a second that he can't. She grins at him and braces her hands on her hips, hefting an eyebrow. 

“Like what you see?” she asks. 

All the she gets from him in reply is her name, said in a low whisper that's hoarse and needy and sounds almost a little bit like a prayer. And well, okay. Kate's never put much stock in patience. 

She puts a condom on him and straddles his legs, getting a hand between them to give his dick a few rough strokes. That's all the actual foreplay he gets, though, before she holds him in place just so and sinks down. It's a bit too quick and she has to catch her breath a few times before she's made it all the way down, but that's a small sacrifice in the face of the raw need that's mirrored in his eyes. He rocks them forward, all he can do by the way of thrusting without the support of his arms, and frustration fits across his features, briefly, until she takes charge instead and rolls her hips. Both hands braced on his shoulders, she lifts herself up, then sinks back down, does it again, faster. On the fourth or fifth go, Clint's head falls forward into the crock of her neck. His breath is hot against her skin, the rhythm of it quick and erratic. 

They don't make it to ten. 

Kate comes with both arms wrapped around his neck, faster then she has in... she can't even remember. Clint follows suit, rocking his hips one more time. His eyes are dazed when she looks over, and he's licking his lips, visibly fighting to get his breathing back under control. He's still not saying anything, and a mute Clint is kinda scary for reasons she can't pinpoint, so she hurries to a stand, to get out the scissors and cut the rope. The knots are supposed to give easily, but Kate decides right now even that would take too much time. 

Once he's free, she removes the condom, ties it off and throws it away, because he's not doing that either. Worry starts to seep into her afterglow, and she pushes him down and climbs onto the bed, curling around him so their bodies touch in as many places as possible. 

She reaches up, brushing the hair off his forehead; it's slightly damp, but he's not actually sweating. “You okay?” 

Clint's chest rises and falls with a deep inhale, and finally, finally, he's showing a reaction. 

“Fantastic, actually.” His arm comes up around her to rub between her shoulder blades, and he's leaning in to bury his nose in her hair, making the next words muffled. “Thank you.” 

Downstairs, the TV is still going, providing background chatter that she only now notices. Someone should probably go down and turn it off, but Kate can't quite muster up the motivation needed to so much as lift an arm right now. She's getting sleepy, and she has no intention of moving at all for the next hour or five.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
